


Crave

by MoonBeams



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John's Wedding, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rehabilitation, Sherlock's Past, Sherlock-centric, Torture, What Happened in Serbia, and plenty of sex and cuddling in the +1 fear not, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 01:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonBeams/pseuds/MoonBeams
Summary: or, 5 times Sherlock was somewhere he didn’t want to be at midnight, and 1 time he was exactly where he needed to be.





	Crave

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sherlock Challenge prompt for February: Midnight.  
> (I know it's almost May, sue me.)
> 
> Beta'd by my dear love who is currently reading the Financial Times and sighing about it. (kezzzx on tumblr, Blackpearl on AO3)

**\--1--**

It’s late, but it doesn’t feel like it’s late enough for the sort of sordid deal they’re striking. The cold and damp soak through Sherlock’s trousers, loose and ragged at the cuffs, as he kneels in the alleyway. He’d like to think that the wetness permeating the fabric is just rain water, but in this area of London he knows better. Can smell it, in fact, the nauseating mix of piss and vomit and other bodily fluids, making him feel sick, making his job that much more difficult. His gag reflex is having a hard time of it as it is.

The man moaning above him is shoving his penis too far down Sherlock’s throat. That’s normal. The fact it happens every time doesn’t make it easier to deal with. Sherlock forces a moan of his own; if he’s lucky it’ll earn him a little extra. He’s an expert at it now, has done it enough times. All his dealers know his supplies of money have been cut off, but everyone knows that there’s more than one way to pay. When one dealer takes things too far, Sherlock simply breaks away and finds a new one. He’s good at disappearing.

He can tell it won’t be long now. It’s a fine balancing act sometimes. He can deduce, can tell what will get them off in a matter of minutes, but too quick and they won’t give him anything in return. He has to find the line: fast enough to get out of there as soon as possible, slow enough to count.

His hair is tugged sharply, a better warning than he usually gets (none, more often than not), but much more painful. He’s always had a sensitive scalp and sometimes when his high is wearing off he spends slow hours thinking about what it would feel like if someone softly stroked their fingers through his hair. It would be nice, he thinks, but not nice enough to bother with a relationship. No one night stand would ever do that for him. Instead, he gets his hair ripped out of its sensitive follicles. The next second he feels the come sluice down his throat and settle hot like a brand in his belly. It’s part of him now. He wants to vomit. 

The man pushes him away by his head and leans back against the alley wall, catching his breath. Sherlock wipes away saliva from his mouth and chin and stays kneeling, staring at the floor, brain curiously, unpleasantly silent. After a few moments, the man rummages in his back pocket and chucks a clear bag of white powder down to Sherlock. 

“A pleasure doin’ business with you,” the man leers, and then laughs, doing up his jeans.

He’s so sure of himself, thinks he’s hilarious. It’s disgusting. Picking up the bag, Sherlock stands, knees damp and protesting after being uncomfortably folded for so long. He says nothing.

Sherlock slips from the dirty alley checking the time on his phone. A little after midnight. He shoves his hands into his pockets, one wrapped around his phone and the other curled protectively around the flimsy plastic bag that he worked for tonight. Once he’s back in his flat he’ll be able to forget all of this; he’ll wash the taste away with a swill of mouthwash and the memories away with a chemical high.

He knows he’ll be back when the drugs run out.

**\--2--**

Hell is a place on Earth and it’s called rehab.

He hates everything about it. Hates the lack of drugs, hates the lack of stimulation for his brain, hates that he can’t have his violin, hates that he’s forced to attend group therapy, hates that the staff look down on him like he’s some idiot. He’s not an idiot. He’s cleverer than the lot of them put together. They think only an idiot would get addicted to drugs, but they don’t understand the way his 7% solution speeds up his thoughts and muffles everything else and just makes the world _bearable_. 

Maybe he would be able to cope with rehab better if his skin weren’t crawling. He knows it’s normal, he’s been through this three times already after all. It doesn’t make it any better. Plus they insist that he eat regular amounts at regular times and drink plenty of water every day. It’s insufferable, but this time he has to suffer through it. He has a reason to put up with it and not plan his escape. 

(Sometimes he plans his escape anyway, just to give his mind something to do.)

(He would wait until night, because the nurses on the night shift are incompetent and lazy. He would wait until the worst of his withdrawal was over, if he could, because then they’d check on him less often. If not, he’d wait until those still, nothingy hours around 4am or 5am. Swiping a key card would be child’s play. And from there it would be simple, only a matter of avoiding Mycroft once he was out.)

But this time there will be no escape. Detective Inspector Lestrade has promised that Sherlock can help on cases. Real, genuine, interesting puzzles, something for his brain to gnaw on that isn’t itself. The only condition is that he has to be clean.

So he will be clean. He’ll find a flat, something in central London, well located to get to any crime scene. He will let, no, _encourage_ Lestrade to come around at all hours with cases. At this point he’d take a simple jewellery robbery if it would stop his skin from crawling. And then when he’s proved just how invaluable he is, when he’s built himself a reputation, he’ll have the luxury of being selective, only picking the best cases, the best brain-teasers. With a reputation like that, it won’t be long until he attracts the notice of London’s criminal underworld, and then things will _really_ get interesting.

A light bubble of excitement rises inside him, a pleasant relief from the itchy-tingly mess of his skin. Now he is in hell, and hell is rehab at midnight on a Tuesday. But not for much longer. There’s light at the end of the tunnel that he thought was a dead end.

**\--3--**

His watch face has been smashed, but he can still make out the time: midnight. That means that he’s been tied up in this basement for almost two hours. John must be looking for him by now. They haven’t been flatmates for long, but John killed a man to protect him within a day of them meeting, so Sherlock is quite sure that he’ll be on his way. Unless he found the pigs’ trotters soaking in hydrochloric acid in the fridge. If that’s the case, he might well be holding a grudge and refusing to look for Sherlock.

No. Sherlock told him the men he was looking for were dangerous, and John can’t stand the idea of Sherlock in danger for some reason, a fact that Sherlock regularly exploits. He gets saved, John gets his danger and excitement. It’s win-win, really. 

Although tonight the benefits aren’t outweighing the inconveniences. Not at the moment. Sherlock is cold, and his coat is damp, which isn’t helping, but he’s tied up, so he can’t remove it. Breathing is a little painful. Each inhale brings to mind the kicks he received to his ribs when the men he was looking for surprised him by finding him first. Predator becoming prey. In the privacy of his own head, he admits that he was an idiot. He should’ve taken John with him; the man really is fast becoming invaluable to Sherlock. Perhaps that should be worrying. Or perhaps it’s just a good way to avoid a beating and being tied up in a cold, damp basement.

Idly, he lets himself daydream. What he wouldn’t give to be at home right now, in his armchair in front of the fire, John opposite him and a cup of tea at his elbow. He’d even take John berating him for his lapse of judgement. Any time spent with John is good. They wouldn’t have to talk, or they could talk about nothing at all. Conversation with John is good. He knows when to shut up and let Sherlock think, he doesn’t talk about inane things, he isn’t thrown when Sherlock abruptly switches topics or continues out loud a conversation that was started in his head. He always manages to prompt new sparks of thought. He makes Sherlock’s brain work faster. He is strong and dangerous but soft and unassuming and his hair has exactly five shades of blond and gold in it and—— 

Oh.

Oh, that’s…

He’s not sure what adjective to use. Interesting. Unexpected. Foolish. Problematic. Impossible. Thrilling. Terrifying. All of the above.

Whichever it is, it’s a fact: he is in love with John Watson.

He never expected to fall in love with anyone, ever. He’s above all that. Mycroft has been conditioning him against caring ever since he was young, he knows that. He’s not an idiot. He goes along with it, though, because it’s probably the most sensible idea Mycroft has ever had. Why embroil yourself in messy interpersonal relationships? It’s unnecessary. 

And yet here he is. Unnecessary though it may be, if someone told him he would never have the pleasure of John’s company again… well, it’s unthinkable. It’s John or nothing now. Which is exactly why he has to keep this revelation utterly secret. John isn’t interested. He’s not gay. He’s said as much so many times that Sherlock pictures the words with capital letters: _Not Gay_. And even if he were, Sherlock would be his last choice of partner. He’s a freak. He’s too much. Nobody wants to spend time with him. It’s already a small miracle that John does, so there’s no chance he could put up with something more than friendship. Sherlock will keep his mouth shut to protect the miracle that is John freely associating with him. He won’t scare him off. 

John will come to rescue him. It will take less than an hour, by Sherlock’s estimate. And when he arrives and unties him, Sherlock will treat him exactly the same as always.

**\--4--**

He hasn’t been able to feel his hands for several hours now. He was keeping track of how long, until a hot brand applied to his back made him pass out and lose count. He thinks he’s cracked their favourite order of torture. They like to prove him wrong, though, psychopaths that they are. If he’s right, it’ll be the whip next.

Here are some things he knows for sure: it’s October, although he doesn’t know the exact date, but it hasn’t been so many days that they’re in November yet. He is in Serbia. Where exactly he doesn’t know, but they didn’t transport him so far that they crossed a border. His name is Sherlock Holmes. He will not tell them any of the secrets he knows. He is doing all this for his brother. He’s really doing all this to get back to London. He loves John Watson.

It’s night, he thinks. He’s 95% sure. He can tell from the cold air that comes in every time someone new enters his cell, even though all air is cold here. Night air has a certain sort of biting chill to it. The next man who comes in to enjoy the show brings in the chill air and a waft of sharp cigarette smoke. Sherlock inhales deeply — as deeply as his ribs and strained position will allow. He would do anything, _anything_ , just for one drag. This is what he has been reduced to.

The smoker walks around behind him, boots scuffing on the rough concrete floor. There is a sound that Sherlock can now identify perfectly: the whispering drag of the whip being picked up, the crackle of it being flexed. He could identify that sound blind, upside down, in a thunderstorm, under water, anywhere. Despite the chill, sweat prickles out on his face and neck, like needles. Long seconds of stillness pass, and it’s almost worse than being struck. He knows, he _knows_ that that’s the point — the crawling anticipation of it, like a good thriller — and yet his stomach still flips and clenches on emptiness and his brain fogs into fear. His breath is shaky and deafening in his ears, battling against his pulse, and he sees it puffing out on the air before him. 

He gets only milliseconds of warning, a rustle of clothing and a whistle in the air that have only just registered when the whip cracks open the skin of his back. He cries out. Before he tried to keep in his noise, not giving them the pleasure of his pain. Now he shouts and screams and sobs and he doesn’t care. The second blow brings with it a rush of air, carrying the lingering smell of cigarettes. The air settles on his tongue as he gasps in oxygen, the taste of nicotine lighting up his brain and mixing confusingly with the red heat across his back. On the third blow he hears the distant, muffled chime of a church bell under his groan. He counts. _One_. 

His torturer doesn’t know it, but his strikes are in time with the strikes of the church clock. Now that he has started counting he can’t stop.

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

There is not much free space on his back ( _five_ ). The injuries slash across one another ( _six_ ).

_Seven._

_Eight._

He spares a strangely clear thought for his hands, manacled above him, feeling so far away, no longer part of him. Are they clenching? Can they still move? ( _Nine. Ten._ )

A low strike makes his foot skitter across the unfinished floor and opens up a graze. ( _Eleven._ ) It is almost more painful than the whipping.

 _Twelve._ Midnight. The church bell is silent. 

Sherlock’s counting continues until he reaches twenty-four and passes out once more.

**\--5--**

Sherlock is playing on muscle memory alone. He’s barely concentrating on the music, he’s sure he’s making millions of mistakes, but how is he meant to concentrate when he’s watching John waltz Mary around the dance floor? If wishes could come true, a hole would open up and swallow him and take him away from this wedding that he never wanted to attend but did because it’s _John_. If wishes could come true, he’d be the one on that dance floor in John’s arms. It doesn’t take a great stretch of imagination. He knows how it feels to be waltzed by John. It feels warm and safe and heart breaking.

The waltz is over and he only realises because there is applause. He gives his vow to John (and Mary, who he only included because he can’t give it to John only, not at his wedding, not after his speech) and then deduces one more thing than he meant to and scrambles to cover, even as his mind is screaming _a baby, a baby, a baby_. He goes to them, explains his deductions, and John is happy but not happy (shocked, nervous, that must be it). Sherlock is decidedly not happy; he knows he’s talking, but all he sees is John helping a hugely-pregnant Mary, John up all night calming a screaming baby, John changing nappies, John making bottles, John out pushing a pram around the park, John buying baby toys and clothes. In short, John focused entirely on his child and Sherlock out of the picture. John won’t have time for him anymore. He wasn’t going to have as much time for Sherlock after getting married, and he certainly won’t now that there’s a baby on the way.

 _We can’t all three dance_ , John says. He knows this. He doesn’t want to dance as a three. _There are limits_. They’ve reached them. This is the limit of their friendship. John, so naive, doesn’t realise yet. It’s as good as over. Just like Mrs. Hudson warned him. Sherlock imagines life without John: Baker Street always empty, emptier than it is now. Cases alone are boring, nowhere near as fun as with John. The hard ones are nowhere near as easy to crack without John there as his conductor of light. No more popping round. No more chases and takeaways and excitement. This is it. It’s time to go.

He steps out into the cold night and pops the collar on his coat to keep in the phantom heat of John’s hand on the back of his neck. He begins to calculate the chances that that was the last time he will see John, and then stops himself when they get worryingly high. Faced with the bleak emptiness of a future without John, he turns to the one thing that has always filled that emptiness, smoothed over his jagged emotions, stilled the rushing world. He has plenty of contacts still, a natural by-product of close association with his homeless network. 

By the time he gets back into London, purchases what he needs, and gets back to the flat, it’s late. Almost a new day. The first day without John. The first of many, isn’t that what they say? Unlikely. He strips his coat, leaves it in a heap on the floor. Prepares the needle. Strips his suit jacket, that joins the coat. Rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, doesn’t think about the matching shirt that John is wearing, the way it’ll be removed tonight, small feminine hands. No. He doesn’t think about that. 

The pinch of the needle, the anticipation of the relief, is almost as good as the relief itself. He’s wasting considerable energy on keeping his thoughts sane right now, keeping the world from drowning him. It will be bliss to let go and just float. The cocaine is good — already the rush of emotion is slowing down. He leans back on the sofa and sinks into it. 

He doesn’t need a doctor; he has self-diagnosed a broken heart and he has self-prescribed cocaine. He doesn’t need his doctor.

**\--+1--**

It is a normal, quiet night at Baker Street. Sherlock sits in his armchair with his eyes closed and his hands steepled, decluttering his mind palace. In the background, a nature documentary plays on TV at a low volume, and laptop keys clatter as John types up his latest blog post in the armchair opposite.

Sherlock opens his eyes to look at him. He’s frowning in concentration at his laptop screen as he picks out letters and words and sentences. His typing has got quicker, actually. It’s the smallest thing that has changed since they first met years and years ago, but even so it makes Sherlock smile. Other changes have been bigger, monumental. His suicide, his return, John’s marriage. Getting shot. Telling John everything that happened while he was away. Dealing with Mary and the child that was never John’s. Helping John. John helping him. 

After all that, slipping into a relationship didn’t seem like such a big change. It felt natural. It felt right. 

John’s typing stops as he realises Sherlock is watching him. He looks up and smiles softly. He never used to be so soft, so unguarded. Sherlock loves it. He can’t help but stare, even now. John looks away first. Sherlock glances at the time. Gone 11pm. He stands.

“Come to bed?” he asks John. 

“Of course,” John replies.

They move in sync through their normal bedtime routines. Laptop off, TV off. Windows closed and doors locked. Teeth brushed standing side by side in the bathroom. They undress but neither bothers with pyjamas. They both know where tonight will lead.

In bed they reach for each other and push the covers down with their feet. They kiss slowly to start with, a warm up. Sherlock skates his hands over every part of John’s bare skin that he can reach. John’s attentions are more focused: Sherlock’s neck, his nipples, a firm hand running down his stomach to rub his growing erection. Sherlock takes his hand and places on his arse. He slots their legs together and presses close and for several minutes they rock lazily together, kisses growing deeper and more heated by the second. 

When both their bodies are desperate for more, Sherlock rolls on top of John and starts working his way down. He nibbles down the column of his neck, licks over a mark he left on John’s collarbone two nights ago. He pays special attention to his nipples, licking, sucking, and rubbing for minutes on end until John’s hips are shifting and his fingers are clenching in the sheets. Sherlock wants to get him worked up, supersensitive. Maybe one day he could make him come just from nipple play. It would be a good bedroom experiment. Now though, he noses down John’s ribs, nips gently at the small layer of fat covering John’s belly that Sherlock adores. John’s erection nudges against his chin. Sherlock ignores it in favour of a few teasing kisses on his hips, but he can’t resist for long. He settles between John’s spread legs, mouth watering.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock slides his lips down the length of John’s cock. John’s hand, resting warm on Sherlock’s shoulder, grips in time with his soft, shaky moan. Sherlock would smile if his mouth weren’t full. He loves taking John apart piece by piece, doing all the right things to make him gasp and groan and tremble. He loves the clean-sweat-arousal smell when he’s here nose deep in John’s groin, the unique scent that reminds him every time how lucky they are to be here and together. 

“Together,” John says on an exhale. 

Sherlock’s eyes flick up, momentarily confused by John’s apparent mind reading.

“Don’t let me finish,” John clarifies, voice unsteady. “I want us to come together.”

Sherlock lets his eyes roam over John’s flushed chest and growls his approval around his cock. The muscles of John’s neck stand out as he tips his head back with a long, drawn-out sound of pleasure. However much John wants them to come together, Sherlock will still tease him relentlessly, take him right to the edge. John desperate and pleading is one of his most cherished versions. And it results in an excellent outcome for both of them. So Sherlock works his mouth further down John’s cock, alternates between soft suckles and long, hard pulls. Finding what will drive John mad is his favourite game of deduction. 

Fingers slide into his hair, clipped-short fingernails scrape against his scalp. Not tugging, not yet. But even so it makes all Sherlock’s nerves light up at once, like a whole road of street lamps flicking on when dusk approaches. He can hear the noises, grunts and soft whines, that he’s making in the back of his throat, and he knows that John likes them too. He would never imagine faking, but sometimes he lets his control go just a touch more, and John’s reaction to _that_ makes him even louder again. 

He pulls up, focuses his attentions on the head of John’s cock, his hand sliding around to work the rest of his shaft. John will be getting closer and closer with each passing second, so he takes it slowly. His hand slides smoothly up, slowly back down. His tongue laps, soft, gentle sweeps. The sharp taste of precum on his tongue and the sound of John’s moans are his reward, his praise. He _almost_ wants to plunge back down on John’s cock, choke himself and suck until he can’t breathe and John comes with a shout down his throat, but he holds himself back. Patience will be worth it, so worth it. 

When John’s noise reaches a certain pitch, takes on a certain note of begging, Sherlock removes hand and mouth from his cock. He glances up at John, smiles, then rubs his cheek up John’s cock like a cat. His barely-there evening stubble scratches lightly against John’s sensitive skin.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John gasps. “Get up here, right now, this second.”

Sherlock can’t hold back his grin as he slides back up John’s torso, smudging kisses as he goes. John’s hand cupped around his neck drags him in for a bruising kiss, one where Sherlock can feel the electricity of lust and the coppery tinge of desperation. A quick shuffle of limbs and a second later Sherlock is flipped onto his back, John above him. 

“That’s a good trick,” Sherlock says, smiling.

“Thought you’d like it,” John replies. He’s flushed, a little sweaty, but smug: beautiful. “And now for my next trick…”

Sherlock’s laugh morphs into a groan as John’s hand curls around his cock. God, with pleasuring John he’d barely realised how hard he was. His hands drift, skating down John’s spine and ghosting over the curve of his arse, bumping up rib after rib and trailing along collarbones. He wants to touch everywhere. John’s hand is making it very hard to think. 

“Like that,” Sherlock says, breathless.

John continues stroking slowly but firmly. “I know you wanted to tease me,” he murmurs, breath puffing warm on Sherlock’s cheekbone. 

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut. “Yes. Makes it even better, after.”

“Of course,” John agrees. “You’re the genius.” 

He plonks a kiss into Sherlock’s eyebrow. Sherlock can feel John’s cock against his hip, hard length, smear of wetness on his skin, gentle thrusts in time with his hand.

“John.”

John’s hand twists and Sherlock’s back arches and hips thrust up.

“Yes, darling?”

“John,” Sherlock repeats.

“I’ve broken your words again, have I?” John asks, running a trail of kisses along his forehead and down the side of his face.

Sherlock twines both arms around John’s back and tugs him close against him. He wants them flush together, no space between them. He holds on tight. 

“Mngh. Not quite yet,” he replies, admittedly after a struggle to find his voice. “You’ll have to—” (his breath hitches at a particularly good stroke) “—try harder.”

John rubs his nose against Sherlock’s cheek, then pulls back so that Sherlock can see his grin. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll have you screaming wordlessly by the end of this.”

Sherlock’s cock twitches in John’s grasp. “Soon,” he pants. “You should make that soon.”

The foreplay and teasing has gone on long enough. He wants to come now, wants to watch John’s orgasm, wants his mind quiet and overwashed by pleasure. John agrees. He shifts his weight fully atop Sherlock, rearranges their legs, and takes both their cocks together in his hand. They’re pressed together chests to bellies to cocks to thighs. John’s toes push against Sherlock’s calves as he thrusts into his hand and against Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock is breathless with moaning and panting, but he claims John’s mouth anyway, kissing him with all the passion and heat and _need_ he feels. His hands find their way to John’s arse and he tries to pull him even closer. He can feel John’s firm muscles flexing under his hands, he can feel their ribs expanding and pushing together, he can feel John’s want in the way he bites at Sherlock’s lips and sucks on his tongue. Their mouths break apart when the pleasure builds too high. Sherlock stares hazily from under hooded eyelids at John, flushed, aroused, hair a mess. He loves him so much.

“Jo— Ye—” he gasps. John was right. He’s wordless. 

“Yes, God yes, that’s it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s fingers dig bruises into John’s arse as he tries to catch his breath, tries to chase his orgasm which is _right there_ , just lingering on the edge. He whines, keens, presses up into John’s hand. 

“Beautiful,” John groans. “You’re gorgeous. So hot. And you’re all mine.”

He ducks his head to suck a sharp mark onto Sherlock’s neck and that does it. Sherlock tips over the edge into his orgasm and his mind goes deliciously blank with the pleasure of it. Distantly he feels himself arching up, clinging onto John, then feels the wetness bloom on his belly as John’s come joins his own. 

His brain comes back online to their harsh panting, the soft whimpers that escape him as John slows his strokes. His arms feel too heavy to move, but he still wraps them around John’s back, and they both lie there, solid and heavy, catching their breath.

“Was I loud?” Sherlock murmurs after who-knows-how-long. He was a little too preoccupied to notice.

John doesn’t lift his head from Sherlock’s shoulder, but Sherlock feels his cheek move in a smile. “You were perfect,” he replies.

“I love you,” Sherlock says, with a content sigh.

John does lift his head then, to slide up Sherlock’s body and kiss him slow and sweet. Sherlock sighs again and lets himself be lost in the gentle kiss. 

“I’m all yours,” Sherlock whispers when they break apart, stroking John’s cheek.

“All mine,” John repeats. “And I’m all yours. I love you.”

Sherlock kisses him again. There is nowhere he would rather be than here, kissing John, his One, the only thing he ever needs a fix of now. When John’s fingers slide into his hair and start stroking slow patterns, Sherlock breaks the kiss and tips his head back with a soft groan of absolute bliss.

“Feels good,” he says.

“I know,” John replies. It’s no secret that Sherlock’s scalp is sensitive. 

“Don’t stop.”

John kisses his nose. “I won’t.” There’s a smile in his voice.

And so Sherlock basks in the joy of his orgasm and John’s fingers running trails through his hair. His mind is only a quiet fuzz. He could happily stay like this forever, holding John close. 

“Alright now, love,” John says after many minutes, fingers stopping and body pulling away.

Sherlock opens his eyes and makes a noise of protest. He might be pouting. He tightens his hold on John.

“We’re getting sticky,” John says. “It’s unpleasant. I’ll clean us up, and then we can cuddle again, okay?”

Sherlock sighs and lets his arms flop down to the mattress. John is right, of course. 

“Hurry,” he says, as John pulls out of bed.

At least there is one advantage, he thinks, watching the muscles in John’s back, arse, and thighs as he moves to the bathroom. He smiles to himself, then smiles some more about how soppy he’s being. The taps are running in the bathroom. A yawn surprises him and he turns his head to look at the clock on the bedside table. 0:17. A new day has come without either of them noticing. 

“Here,” John says, emerging from the bathroom fresh and clean, with a flannel for Sherlock. 

Sherlock blinks sleepily and stretches languorously as John gently cleans the come from his stomach and genitals. He quickly returns the flannel to the bathroom and is back in bed, under the covers with Sherlock, in moments. They lie face to face, in each other’s arms. 

“Did I wear you out?” John asks softly.

“My mind is quiet,” Sherlock replies.

“Good,” John says, and stretches up to kiss his forehead.

“I love you,” Sherlock says, capturing John’s lips.

John kisses him with all the sweetness and slow ooze of honey. “I love you too,” he says, when they part. “Sleep well, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes remain closed. He is warm and safe and satisfied and loved. “Goodnight, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at hannahrrrr.tumblr.com


End file.
